Only a Dream
by MuslimBarbie
Summary: Funny things dreams are, because you always start in the middle of things. And because, even if it's completely foolish, even if it's for the smallest breath of time, you always believe them. - The Doctor contemplates the life he could have had with Amy.


Word Count: 5743

Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.

Dedicated to anyone who still ships Eleven/Amy.

* * *

**We're so close****  
****To reaching that famous happy end, and****  
****Almost, believing this one's not pretend, and****  
****Let's go on dreaming**

* * *

It starts off with a dream. A single dream. Nothing more, nothing less. Only a dream. Only it isn't just a dream. No, no; it's so much more than that. Because it can never be as simple as just a dream, not when it comes to his Amy. Because that's who he dreams about: his mad, clever, _magnificent_ Amelia Pond. And, really, that should be enough to clue him into the fact that it's a dream, because it has been _years_ since he last saw her. A lifetime, really. Because she's gone. Left him. Off living her life properly. So there's no possible way she can actually be with him.

Funny thing dream are, though. Because you always start in the middle. You don't know how you got there; you don't really know where you're going. You just are and you never question it.

And you always–even if it's for the most miniscule of moments–believe them.

He dreams that she's there in the TARDIS with him; that she never even left. They laugh, they tease, they banter. He tells her things about planets that she only half understands and she makes fun of the way he dresses. And they still travel together, all these years and she stays with him, sees the universe with him. He takes her everywhere, from the start of the universe to the most distant star. And every step of the way, she stays with him. Never leaves, never wavers. Amelia Pond, _the-girl-who-never-gave-up_.

But that isn't the part that gets to him. No, as fantastic and amazing and magnificent as that is, that isn't what gets to him. Because there's more, _oh-so-much_ more and it's almost more than he thinks he can handle. And he's handled more than his fair share of things.

"Doctor Daddy!"

"No, no, no," he corrects her. "It's _Daddy. _Just Daddy. D-A-D-D-Y."

She stares at him with her hands on her hips and puffs her cheeks into a pout. "Doctor Daddy," she says defiantly.

Because what gets to him the most is that there's a girl. Young–no more than five Earth years– with the brightest green eyes and long ginger hair. And real. So very, _very_ real.

She sits on his lap and laughs and tells him a story that _Mummy_ told her about the Pandora's Box. She gets it all wrong–butchers it to tiny-whiny, itsy-bitsy pieces–but, for once, he doesn't mind. He sits and listens as if his life depends on it, soaking up every last silly little word. And when she's done, he grins, kisses her on the forehead and tells her that it was _magnificent_ and promises her that he will _never ever_ forget it. She grins so merrily, so _brightly,_ that it almost takes his breath away.

And then she hugs him and he can feel her two hearts beating in her chest, their rhythm synching with his. That alone should be more than enough to alert him, because that shouldn't be possible. He doesn't even think human-Gallifreyan reproduction is physically possible. And certainly not that easily. No, no, there would be side effects, repercussions. It would cause… _problems_. It isn't that simple. Isn't that _easy_.

"I love you, Doctor Daddy."

Only, funny things dreams are, because you always start in the middle of things. And because–even if it's completely foolish, absolutely ridiculous, and even if it's for the smallest breath of time–

You _always_ believe them.

He wraps his arms around her, holds his little daughter closer and strokes her ginger hair. When she pulls back, she grins at him and tugs at his bowtie before she leans up and kisses him once on the cheek. Then she hops off his lap, turns away, and runs into the depths of the TARDIS.

He doesn't remember anything after that. But that's the way dreams work. You always get the middle, never the start and never _ever_ the end. And, after all, that's all it was: a dream. Only a dream. Nothing more; nothing less.

"Right," he mumbles, pushing his blanket off of him and hopping out of the bed, "Well, that's enough of that." And he means it. Because there's nothing he can do about it. No point in mulling over pointless dreams. Because that's all it was: a dream.

Except things are never that simple when it comes to Amy.

The fact that it's _Amy_ makes the least amount of sense, because it has been _years_ since he last saw her. A lifetime since she and Rory left him; went on to live their own lives. And he's had other friends since then, other companions. Each unique and special and brilliant in their own way. So why her? Why, of every possible human, his wild, beautiful, clever Amy Pond?

Not that it actually needs answer. No, of course not. He's not daft. (Far from it, actually.) Because each and every one of his later companions were unique, special, brilliant in their own way, but they weren't his Pond. No, she's always been a bit different. He knows his Amelia and she was never one to let herself be forgotten. She's a remember-er, that one: she doesn't let anyone be forgotten and she would never _ever_ let herself be forgotten. She's too proud for that, too stubborn, too impossible, too Scottish, too ginger. She's just too… too… _Amy_.

One visit, he decides. A quick pop in just to see her and then he'll be gone. A hello, a few words, maybe a bit of custard and fish, but nothing more. Then he'll be gone. He'll stay out of trouble. Really. He means it this time. No trouble. None what-so-ever.

(He ignores the part of his brain that says he can't stay out of trouble. He's good at that, after all. The ignoring things bit; not the bit about staying out of trouble. In fact, the ignoring things part is what usually gets him _into_ the trouble. But he ignores that too.)

The moment the TARDIS lands, however, he realises that this is a mistake. A very, very bad mistake. She left, gone. There was a reason they said goodbye. Things are different now. He'd just be popping in in the middle of things. Because she's moved on with her life. Off doing things married folks do. Like making babies.

Oh Great Gallifrey, what if she's pregnant?

What if he just landed himself in Upper Leadworth where there's nothing to do and she's miserable and absolutely bored out of her mind? What if there's nothing to do but sit on boring benches and see old folks? He doesn't think he can bear to see her like that again. The last time was bad enough and that was only a dream. No. No, no, _no_. This was definitely a bad idea. Worst idea he's had yet in fact, and he's had quite his share.

"Oi, Doctor!" a voice cries from the outside of the door, pounding against the TARDIS. "Doctor, open this door right now. I mean it. Doc-_tor_!"

He doesn't remember running to the doors. Really. His legs carried him there on their own. Have mind of their own, they do. Honest.

He swings the door open and looks down at Amy with a grin. "Why hello there, Pond. Fancy seeing you here."

She crosses her arms over her chest and pretends to glare at him in a no-nonsense sort of way. "You destroyed my shed. Again."

He looks down and, sure enough, the TARDIS is standing on top of bits of red wood and shed remains. "Yes, well, maybe you should learn to place your sheds in better places. That's an awful spot for a shed. Terrible, really."

He half expects her to continue to scold him, but she tosses her head back and laughs. "Some things never change, eh?" She doesn't wait for his answer; she just steps into the TARDIS and hugs him. He grins and wraps his arms around her and spins them in a circle, making them laugh more. When she pulls back, she reaches across, straightens his bowtie, and grins up at him. But after a moment, it fades slightly and she glances past him. "So where is she then?"

"Who?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "You know, _her_. The new girl. You can't still be alone," she explains before she calls out, "you can come out now. Don't worry, I won't bite!"

She laughs again, but it doesn't ring quite true to his ears. To anyone else, it might have, but not to him. No, no, not to him. Even now he knows his Amelia too well to know when she is holding something back from him. And he knows exactly what it is and, for the briefest of moments, he feels a bit of guilt swell in the deepest pits of his stomach. Which is not good. Worse than not good, really; it's _extremely_ not good. Because he has absolutely no reason to feel guilty. She left, after all. It's been years on her part. So no, guilt is the one thing he should not be feeling.

Still… _still_.

"Where is she? You didn't pick up some sort of coward this time, did you, Doctor?"

"There's no one else in there, Amy," he answers. "I'm not travelling with anyone else at the moment."

She stares at him. "So you're telling me that you've been alone this entire time? Somehow I don't buy that."

And there she is. His clever, clever Pond. She always was a quick one; always knew how to get her answer out of him. Still knows, it seems. He grins slightly, a bit proud. "I didn't say that."

"Ah-ha! So there have been others." Now she's just baiting him. But then again, she's always been good at that, and he never could resist a good bait. She grins smugly at him and it makes his smile grow. She's always been a bit contagious like that. It's impossible to stay glum around her. She's a bit like an infection. But the good sort. The very best.

"Let's just say that I happen to be–how shall I put this?–_in between_ companions."

"Oh? Companion_s_, is it? And just how many have there been then, Doc-_tor_?"

He shrugs, "one, two. Maybe more, maybe less. Does it really matter?"

She's silent for a moment, as if she's contemplating his words. "No," she says at last. "I suppose not." There's a beat before she looks up at him and grins again. "Come on then," she takes his hand. "I just made a batch of fresh custard this morning and I think we've got some fish fingers in the back of the freezer." He smiles softly as she leads him out of the TARDIS and into the house.

No, he supposes, some things never do change.

"So," she asks, pulling a packet of fish fingers out, "what are you doing here?"

"I thought I would stop by for a visit," he explains, spinning on one of the stools at the breakfast counter. "What? You don't think I just abandon my friends, do you?"

She eyes him a bit suspiciously as she sticks the fish fingers in the microwave. After a moment a playful grin tugs at her lips. "You came here by accident, didn't you?" she asks, leaning across from the other side of the breakfast counter.

He laughs; he can't help it, really. He'd forgotten how well she knew him (_knows him_.) Because, even if it isn't true this time, it wouldn't have been the first time he accidently popped in some place. And it isn't as if he's actually meant to be here; if it weren't for that dream, he would have never thought of it. So, in some ways…

"You could say that," he grins back at her, tapping her on the nose.

She laughs for a moment; it's loud and a bit obnoxious, but so very, well, _Pond_. How could he have ever forgotten that laugh? He never forgets things. Well, except when he does, but he always remembers in the end. And that's what counts, isn't it? He's here and he remembers now. His grin grows and he laughs with her.

The ring from the microwave interrupts their laughter and, when she turns to fetch them, a thought strikes him. He glances around. "Where's Rory?" he asks. It isn't like him to not be around.

"Work," she answers automatically as she pulls the fish fingers out. "He'll be back soon, I think." She grabs a small bowl of custard from the fridge.

"How come you aren't?"

"It's my day off," Amy explains setting the food in front of him. "And I have a new job. I'm a police officer now."

He grins, remembering her kissogram costume from the day they found Prisoner Zero, and takes a bite of his custard covered fish fingers. "That isn't the first time you've told me that, Pond. The last time you did, you hit me with a cricket bat and handcuffed me to the radiator."

"Yeah, well, you were late." She smirks, obviously remembering as well. "Although I'm sure I have a cricket bat laying around here somewhere…" She winks.

"No, that's fine. I think I got enough the last time." He doesn't miss a beat and holds up a fish finger. "Want some?" he asks in between chews.

"Chew before you swallow," she tells him automatically. "And no. Even after all these years, I still can't believe you eat that stuff. It's awful."

"It's cool," he says once he's swallowed. "Fish fingers are cool."

"You're disgusting," she laughs.

He grins at her through bites.

It isn't like the last time–like the time in the dream when she was pregnant and in Upper Leadworth and bored out of her mind. It isn't awkward. Isn't tense. There are no silent moments, no failed attempts at conversation. She doesn't offer him a horrid tour of the town and he doesn't bother asking to see anything. It isn't why he came, after all. Instead, he tells her about a few of the new planets he's seen and she tells him about her life as an actual police officer. They sit together and laugh and talk as if it hasn't been years. As if it were any other day and they were sitting in the TARDIS kitchen and not Leadworth. And he's relieved. So very, very relieved.

"So," she says, dragging out her vowels for an unnecessary amount of time, "why did you do it?" she asks after sometime.

"Do what?"

"Come back."

He stares at her with a confused expression. "I already said–"

"No," she interrupts him, "_I_ said that it was by accident. You didn't say anything one way or the other." She rolls her eyes. "All this time and you think I haven't figured you out yet? Please. I think I deserve a bit more credit than that, Doc-_tor_."

It strikes him as odd that she would think that. He's lived for more than nine hundred years; he's travelled so much, seen so much, done so much. He's had eleven different faces, eleven different minds. Even by Gallifreyan standards, he's gotten old. By Earth standards, he's ancient–impossible. So there's no possible way she can have him figured him out. He's not even sure _he's_ figured himself out and that's saying something because, well, let's be honest here, he _always_ figures things out. So no. There's no possible way he can believe that she's figured him out. Not even in the slightest. But still…

_Still_.

"You're quick, Pond. You always were though. Mad, impossible, but so very quick. Quick Amy Pond," he grins.

"And you're still avoiding the question."

"Yes, well, isn't that you humans call a hint?"

She doesn't miss a beat; she never has, after all. "Yeah, I always was rubbish with those," she shrugs. And he can see it: the bit of him mixed in with all of her and her Scottish-ness.

She's very much the seven year old who fed him fish-custard, the nineteen year old kissogram, the twenty-one year old who travelled with him. But there's more to it than that, because he's rubbed off on her now. She's always been quick, but she's gotten quicker. She's learned to use her eyes, to notice everything, to not ignore the little details. Even when it comes to him. She's still very Pond, but she's got a bit of Doctor mixed into her now and it isn't a good combination. Not for him, at least. It's the opposite of good, actually. It's extremely not good. Not at all. Especially now.

"So what was it then?" she asks, leaning across the counter so that her nose almost touches his, her eyes meeting his.

He doesn't keep the gaze. "Amelia…"

She frowns. "Doctor, you came back."

"Of course I did. I always come back."

"Liar," she says, moving back a bit. She doesn't sound bitter or angry. There's something else in there (tired? hurt? absolute?), but it definitely isn't bitter and definitely not angry. Those he could deal with. People get mad at him all the time; they're bitter even more often. He's used to that. But not this. Whatever this is. This is different. This, this is so, so…_Pond_.

"I'm–"

"Shut up," she pushes her finger to his lips like he used to do to her. "There were others before me; I wasn't anywhere close to the first and I know that. But you never mentioned them, Doctor. I stopped expecting for me to be any different a long time ago. And it's been eight years; eight _years_ since I last saw you. No word, no calls, not a bloody sign that you still existed. Because you don't look back, Doctor. You never have. Once you're gone, you're gone. But here you bloody are. So why? Tell me."

She talks a bit like it's an order; like he doesn't have an actual say in the matter. Because she doesn't ask for things. No, not really. Not his Amy. He hasn't heard her actually ask him _for_ something; not since she was seven and he promised her five minutes. Ever since then, she just sort of says what she wants and expects it to be done. She's a bit too independent like that–even now. Only it isn't exactly a demand. No, it's too soft, too gentle to be a demand. Because his Amy may not ask for things, but this is as close as she gets.

And he has to do it, of course. Tell her, that is. He doesn't particularly want to, because it's a mistake, one he knows he'll regret. But therein lies the problem because he's always made mistakes when he came to her. He's never been able to deny her. Not really. Because she may not be the one he's travelled the longest with or the one he's shared the most with, but she _knows_ him. Not all of him; not his previous selves. No, no. Of course not. How could she? She couldn't, that's how.

But she knows him–this him, this version, this Doctor–better than cares to admit. So well that sometimes he wonders if she knows him better than he knows himself. Even now, even after he's travelled with others, after she's been away from him for eight years. She _still _knows him, even now. And so no, he won't deny her. Doesn't think he can.

"It was…" he pauses and frowns. How best to put it? "A dream."

"A dream?"

"Yes, a dream. I had a dream and it made me remember a few…_things_."

She stares at him for a moment, contemplative. He half expects her to want more; to ask about what sort of dream it was, to demand all the little details. But she doesn't and he thinks she might just know _exactly _what he means.

A gentle expression tugs at her. "I see," she mumbles and he thinks she really does.

Because she's changed, he realises. She's different. Not bad different though, just…different. He can still see little, curious Amelia hidden away in there; he can still see his mad, impossible Amy, but there's something else there too. She's older, wiser, but not necessarily grown up. She's different, she's changed, but not in a bad way.

He's changed too, of course. How could he not? He's gotten too old, seen too much to not change a little tiny bit with every person he meets, every adventure he has, every tiny experience.

So they've both changed. Separately. Apart from one another. In two different ways. But it's still there–that same spark, that same connection, that same something they've always shared. It's funny, really: it has been years on both of their ends, they've both changed, but their relationship hasn't. Everything changes, but some things never do.

And the words are on the tip of his tongue, because–what the hell–why not? One trip. A quick hop to the planet Efendi and back. He'll have her back faster than she can say _bowties are cool_ (which they are). One spin for old time's sake. And then she can decide about the after bit. She's always been good at that, after all–making decisions. Sometimes a bit too good, he thinks. Because, come to think of it, she's always had a knack for making decisions with or without his consent. Not the safest thing, but it always kept things interesting. And, really, has he ever been one to deny something interesting? And if Amy Pond is anything, it's interesting.

"So Pond," he grins.

If she's thrown by his sudden mood change, she doesn't show it. "So Doc-_tor_," she grins back.

The way she reacts is so easy, so natural, that he isn't worried. After all, you don't get to be as old, as wise, as brilliant as him without figuring these sorts of things out. You don't live as long as him, see as much as him, and not learn how things work. How people work. And he knows _exactly_ how she'll respond. What she'll say. That she'll agree. Travel with him again. If only for a little bit.

Funny thing dreams are though. Because you never start at the beginning, you just plop into the middle of things. And you always believe them. Even if it's for the slightest of moments. Even if it's absolutely foolish to do so.

"Mummy, where are you?" a small voice calls out. Amy's eyes widen in some sort of almost panic, but she doesn't break her gaze. "Mummy?"

She tilts her head in the direction of the voice, but she keeps her eyes on him, as if she's judging his reaction. It's him who looks away in the end. Has to look away. Suddenly he won't meet her gaze. Can't meet her gaze.

"I'm in the kitchen," she calls out.

"You have a kid," he mumbles. It isn't a question. No, of course it isn't. How could it possibly be a question when the answer is so obvious? But still, he felt the need to say it. He isn't sure why, but he did, and he words feel awkward and off and strange and wrong as they fall out.

"Yeah, well, eight years is a long time," she tells him, turning away.

And she's right. He doesn't like it–hates it, loathes it, absolutely despises it–but he knows she's right. Eight years is a very, _very_ long time. For her, of course, not him. No, no, no. Eight years is nothing for him. Not even a pit stop. Barely a blip for a Time Lord. Which he is. And she isn't. No, not even close. She's one hundred per cent absolute-positively human. And eight years is more than forever for her. It's almost a lifetime, really. Stupid Doctor.

Stupid, _stupid_ Doctor.

"Mummy, look at what I drew in class today," a little boy says, running into the kitchen.

He's small and the Doctor has to lean over the counter to see him. Young too–maybe five or six Earth years–with a nose too large for his face. And a head full of messy brown hair. Brown, not ginger. It's wrong, he thinks, because any child of Amy's should be ginger. And loud. But this boy isn't. Even when he called for Amy, he didn't raise his voice unnecessarily. He isn't at all how Amy's child should be. No, not at all. He's not like…

_Doctor Daddy!_

He immediately shakes the voice from his head. It was only a dream after all. Not real. And it never will be. Can't ever be.

"That's great, kiddo," Amy grins taking a drawing from his hands. She pins it against the refrigerator and ruffles his hair. "But Mummy is talking to someone right now."

The child finally notices him and stares at him with wide eyes. The Doctor grins and gives him a little wave. "Hello there. I'm the Doctor. What's your name?"

The boy's eyes widen and he looks up at Amy. "Is he like the Doctor from my bedtime stories?" he asks quietly.

"Bedtime stories?" the Doctor asks, giving Amy an amused glance.

She pushes her hands into the top of her ginger head. "Oh, shut up."

"Mummy!" the boy gasps. "You said a bad word!"

Amy gives him a glare that tells him clearly tells the Doctor that she will make him pay. "Sorry, kiddo," she tells the boy, a slightly forced smile on her lips.

The Doctor spins once more on the stool before he stands and walks around the counter. He grins and bends down to the boy's height. "So what's your name?" he asks him again.

"Ricky," he answers at last.

"Ricky Pond! That's a brilliant name!"

The boy stares at him. "My name is Ricky Williams."

"Oh. Well. That's a good name too. I suppose."

"Amy!" another voice calls. "You'll never believe what's outside! It's the TAR–" His words fall short when he runs into the kitchen and his eyes land on the Doctor.

"Rory Pond!" he laughs, standing up.

"Doctor!" he grins back, hugging him briefly. "What are you doing here?"

And he likes Rory. Genuinely likes him. He's a good fellow, after all; was a good friend. Is a good friend. Which makes it all the worse. Makes him feel all the worse. Because he never stopped to consider Rory. Which is wrong. Isn't like him. Which is not good. Worse than not good. It's _extremely_ not good.

"Please. You know the Doctor," Amy laughs in a way that doesn't ring completely true to his ears. "Better yet, you know how he drives. He landed here by mistake."

If Rory finds it suspicious, he doesn't say. But that's always been his problem: he's too trusting. He isn't like him or even Amy. Rory has his moments, but not like them. He doesn't look for the hidden bits in everyone's words. Probably wouldn't know how to. Which is good. So very good. And it drives the guilt in him even further.

Rory opens his mouth–probably to make some joke–but stops when little Ricky yawns. He looks down at the boy and smiles softly. "Are you ready for your nap, mate?" Ricky nods and Rory takes his hand. He glances at the Doctor. "I'll be back in a moment, Doctor." He doesn't wait for his answer and the two walk out of the kitchen.

Amy waits exactly two beats–when they're out of hearing range, he presumes–before she turns back to him. "So Doctor…"

"Yes, Pond?"

"What were you saying?"

"Saying? I wasn't saying anything."

"Yes, you were. Before Ricky came home."

"Hm? Oh. That. It's nothing." He waves it off. "Wasn't important."

It isn't as if he can tell her now. Ask her to come back to the TARDIS with him. He can't even offer for Rory to join them. Not now. Not with the child–Ricky with his brown (not ginger) hair and his much too large (just like his father's) nose–there. The TARDIS isn't a place for a child, after all. No, absolutely not. It's far too dangerous.

(And he doesn't think he could bear it anyways. But he ignores the part of him that thinks that. He's good at that, after all; ignoring things.)

"Doctor…"

But he knows he has to tell her something now. She's much too quick, much too stubborn, much too _Amy_ to let him get away without it.

"You were right," he tells her instead. "I don't look back. I can't." And this is why, it's just too hard. Too hard to see how their lives have changed, have moved on without him. He doesn't want to see them enjoying their lives without him in it. Because he's old and he's selfish. So very, _very_ selfish. "But," he takes a step closer to her and wraps his hands around her head, his fingers tangling in her ginger hair, "I never forget. Not once, Amy," he promises kissing her on the forehead. "Not ever."

She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck. Her hair tickles his nose and he inhales her smell. She smells a bit like water, he realises. Fresh water, rainwater, spring water. Pond water. Yes, pond water. Oh, how Pond. How very Pond. He smiles and kisses her ginger-pond hair.

"You better not," she mumbles. She pulls back a tiny bit so that she can look up at him. There are a few tears in her eyes, but they don't fall and she smiles at him. "Or else."

He laughs loudly. "I couldn't forget you if I wanted to, Amy."

_I never want to._

He doesn't say it out loud, but he knows she knows. Of course she knows; she's his Amy after all. His mad, impossible, clever, magnificent Amelia Pond. When has she ever not known?

He lets himself kiss her forehead one more time–her head, her (beautiful, ginger) hair–before he pulls himself away from her. He doesn't meet her eyes and looks down at his watch. He forces a grin on his face and suddenly he's all smiles again. "Oh, would you look at that." He taps his watch three times. "I think it's time I went off now."

"Already?"

"Oh you know me, I have things to do. People to save. Planets to explore. There's a whole universe out there waiting for me." He doesn't wait for her answer. He spins on his heel and walks out of the kitchen and towards the exit.

Rory comes down the stairs just as he's passing them by. "You're leaving? But you've only just gotten here. At least stay for supper."

"Can't, I'm already late. I have a dance lesson in 1925 I have to get to," he explains giving Rory a quick hug.

He hears Amy snort behind him. "God knows you could certainly use it."

"Actually, I happen to be giving the dance lesson."

"Well then they definitely won't mind if you're late," she mumbles.

He ignores her this time. "I'm assuming the boy's asleep already? Yes, of course. Well, tell him I said goodbye. I'll send him something. Has he got a pet? There are dogs without noses on Barcelona. Lovely creature. Beautiful creatures."

"Uh, no pets. We're holding off on that," Rory says. "Especially ones that aren't from Earth."

He frowns. "Shame. Oh well, I'll find something." He shakes his head. "I'll be off then. Good seeing you again."

"You too, Doctor," Rory smiles.

He turns and gives Amy a quick, small hug before the spins on his heel again and walks out the door. And he half walks, half jumps to the TARDIS, determined to get out as quickly as possible now. He almost makes it too. Really, he does. He's stuck the key in the door by the time Amy catches up to him.

"Doctor," she calls from the front steps. And it stops him for the smallest of moments. He doesn't turn around, but he hears her get closer. "Were we happy?" she asks and he can tell she's directly behind him. "In your dream. Were we happy?"

Oh Amy–his clever, quick, _stubborn_ Amy–she never could let him get away so easily. A small smile tugs at his lips. Years ago he would have denied her–changed the topic, distracted her, maybe even lied. He would have done something, _anything_, to avoid answering her question. But not now. No, not now.

_I love you, Doctor Daddy._

"Yes," he tells her. The happiest. "But…"

"But?"

He turns and gives her a soft smile. "It was only a dream."

She looks thoughtful for a second, as if she's imagining their life on the TARDIS and the little girl with the ginger hair and the brightest green eyes and two hearts. A sad smile slowly tugs at her lips and she nods, understanding.

He doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to. They've always had their own strange way of communicating without words. And, well, some things never change. So after a moment, at a time the two of them understand, he turns back and slips into the TARDIS. He goes straight to the controls and sends himself as far away as possible. As far through time and space as he can go to escape. To run away to.

Funny things dreams are, because you always believe them even if they're absolutely foolish. You jump into the middle of things without knowing the before and never seeing the end. You always only get the middle. Because dreams are a funny thing and you always get the best parts. It's the strongest bits, the magnificent bits that stick with you. You get all the laughs, the joys without the consequences. You only see the middle, never the end result. You only ever get the very best in dreams.

_I love you, Doctor Daddy._

But they always come to an end.

Because, eventually, everyone has to wake up.

After all, it's only a dream.

* * *

**When I'm with you****  
****So close to feeling alive****  
****As life goes by****  
****Romantic dreams must die****  
****So I bid mine goodbye**

_So Close_ by Jon McLaughlin

* * *

Note: I started this back in March when the pictures of Amy kissing Eleven on the forehead were released. This fic then became a way to channel my feelings about Amy leaving the show. I stopped it for a while, because I felt like I was losing Eleven's voice and I picked it up again after the Day of the Moon. I've had this finished for about three weeks, but it just took a while to get it up.

Unbeta-ed.


End file.
